


Take It All

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John pisses off the wrong group of hunters, who decide to take John down a few notches by forcing him to watch as they brutalize his son. The only thing worse than being helpless to stop the torture happening right in front of him is the weight of secrets John learns that his son has been carrying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take It All

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Dub-con (John/Dean fuck-or-die blowjob), non-con (Dean/OMCs), torture, CBT, humiliation, spanking/whipping and all derivatives thereof. Themes of prostitution and child abuse (not by John).
> 
> Written for spn_hardcore_bb on LJ. Check out miki_moo's art here: http://miki-moo.livejournal.com/37130.html

John sat at the cabin’s table with an ice pack pressed to his shoulder. His body ached from a messy fight and two graves worth of digging. At least it had gotten the job done, no thanks to the local hunters, who had been more concerned about hoarding an artifact than saving lives.

Dean lay on his stomach, sprawled over the bed on top of the covers. He'd pulled off his jacket, kicked off his boots and tossed his muddy jeans onto the floor before passing out in his boxers and a t-shirt. His expression was peaceful beneath the smudges of dirt and dried blood.

It didn't matter how old Dean got. John still saw a little boy with rumpled blond locks scampering around in his pajamas. He saw the life he’d dreamt for that boy, the one that had slipped through his fingers.

All John had ever asked of the world was for his family be safe. Even that had been too much to ask.

He set the whiskey bottle to his lips, only to drop it a second later. The ice pack fell to the ground and he grabbed for his gun at the sharp crack of splintering wood. The cabin’s door was thrown open hard enough to smash into the wall.

Dean was out of a sound sleep and on his feet with his dagger in hand nearly as quickly as John had thrown back his chair. Dean stood still blinking away the haze of sleep, but was already looking to John for an order.

What walked in was human, or at least something that looked the part and could cross salt lines without blinking. And it wasn’t alone. John didn't care what they were. They'd forfeited everything by breaking into his cabin while his son was sleeping.

Dean was ready, just waiting for the word. It was John who hesitated a moment too long. When he really looked, he recognized the men storming through the door. It was Peter and his gang, the hunters they'd gone around to finish tonight's hunt. He'd been tempted to shoot them several times already. Pulling the trigger now would be easy if they didn’t have a gun trained on Dean.

"You got five seconds to tell me what you're doing here," John said.

"Simple,” Peter replied. His voice carried a light southern drawl as he casually strolled towards John. “It's well past time someone taught you some manners, Johnny.”

John gritted his teeth at Peter’s cocky sneer. Peter didn’t follow the mold of most hunters John had met. He was far more used car salesman with a greasy comb over and a crooked grin. His clothing was selected for style rather than practicality because Peter didn’t have the balls or the physical strength to get his hands dirty. What he did have was borrowed muscle.

Three other men had come in behind him. John knew the two who had swarmed to either side of the room. He’d had the misfortune of working a hunt with Peter’s crew before.

Howard was the biggest physical threat. The man was built like a rhinoceros and was the closest to Dean. His son stood his ground unfazed, still gripping his dagger at the ready as Howard smirked from beneath his long, ratty beard.

Jerry was trying to sneak behind John. The man was disturbingly quiet and prone to the unpredictable, violent explosions of a rabid dog. He wasn’t as large as Howard by a long shot, but he was strong enough and in the business of hunting because he was a sadistic son of a bitch.

The fourth man, John didn’t recognize. He was another large man, all muscle by the looks of it. The lines of his face were hard and he didn’t practice Peter’s immaculate personal hygiene. He remained in the doorway, far too focused on Dean for John’s liking.

Peter took another step forward, drawing John’s focus back to him. “You come by and my amulet goes missing...I’m thinking honest mistake, right?”

Peter’s amulet was now a salted nugget of cooling metal in the bottom of a grave, where it had belonged from the beginning. The man had been intent on holding on to it for its material value despite its risk to others.

“People were dying,” John said. “I did what you should’ve done. Now get the hell out of here before I do the world another favor.”

Peter remained unimpressed when John cocked the trigger, but he didn’t step any closer. “Bona fide hero, you are. Someone oughtta pin a goddamn medal on you.” Peter holstered his weapon and replaced it with a dented pack of cigarettes. He knocked one out before cocking a brow to Dean. “You smoke, boy?”

Dean sent John a questioning look. His son had never met these men because John had gone out of his way to keep them away from Dean. They were sloppy and dangerous. But John hadn’t always been so careful about the company he brought around his sons. He’d ordered Dean to play nice with men not much worse than these and Dean seemed to be asking now if he should play along with Peter.

John shook his head before calling Peter’s attention back to him. “Don’t you even look at my son.”

“Pull the trigger then, why don’t ya?” Peter rested the cigarette between his lips while flipping open his Zippo. He sparked a light and took a drag. “You shoot, my boys shoot. Your boy dies. It’s a wicked web. It’s not the only wicked thing around here.”

Howard stood firm, his gun aimed steadily on Dean’s chest. Dean’s gaze wasn’t focused on the gun, but looked past Howard to John. The fear in Dean’s eyes was pushed back beneath the anticipation of an order to fight that John couldn’t give. John lowered his gun to conserve the strength in his already weary arms, but kept the weapon in hand and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

“There’s two hundred dollars in the bag,” John said. “Take it or leave with a bullet hole.”

“Oh, Johnny, I don’t want your money. You see, that amulet, it was a family heirloom. Not my family...but you get the idea. It’s not the kinda thing you can just pick up at Wal-Mart.” Peter leaned back against the table, flicking ash onto the scarred wood. “Besides, it seems it’s just a sign of a bigger problem.”

John silently calculated the position and possible reaction time of every man in the room. When he spoke, his tone was deceptively calm. 

“And what’s that?” he asked.

“Well, I talked to some other folks and it seems this raping and pillaging has become a habit of yours. You’re making a real business of screwing over other hunters.”

“My businesses is saving lives." John flexed his grip on his gun. "But I got no need to save yours. You get your goddamn gun off of my son. He's got nothing to do with this."

"That's just the thing. You think you can barge in like you own our stuff.” Peter shrugged. “Fine. Do what you like, but there’s consequences. You destroy my shit, least I’m gonna do is fuck with yours.”

Peter’s attention drifted to Dean. His son squared his shoulder and jerked down his t-shirt where it had road up on his side. He looked as far away from Peter as he could without actually turning his head. John didn’t understand what Dean was doing until he looked back at Peter. There was an unsettling twinkle in the man’s eyes as his gaze ran over Dean's body. John hadn’t initially been able to place it for what it was, but Dean obviously had. 

It was the sort of leer a guy who didn’t know how to keep his hands to himself would give a waitress at a bar before slapping her ass. But Peter wasn’t looking at some hot blond in a mini skirt. He was looking at John’s son. Dean was what they’d come for.

“Dean, get down!”

Dean dropped instantly and John tightened the trigger while aiming straight for Peter’s heart. It wasn’t until Dean shouted out a warning that John saw Jerry coming up from behind. The gun was kicked from his hands as he fired, sending the bullet uselessly into the cabin’s tacky wallpaper.

John curled his throbbing hand into a fist and turned to swing at Jerry. The man was smaller than John, but he was also faster. A sharp jab to his gut left John doubled over, struggling for air. A follow-up swing to his temple dimmed the room around him.

When his eyes opened, he was staring at the gritty floor. Nimble fingers had just finished tying off ropes around his wrists. John futilely tugged against the binds even as his vision remained unclear. Hands grabbed him, hauling him up and throwing him back into a chair.

John groaned, struggling to pull the room back into focus despite the splitting pain hammering through his skull. Everything snapped back into place at the sound of his son’s desperate shouts.

He didn’t see Dean, but he did see his son’s dagger lying abandoned on the floor. John blinked away the remains of the haze and turned to look at the closest bed. Three of the men stood around it, laughing a sick cackle like a pack of hyenas closing in on their prey.

“No...no!” Dean shouted and John saw past the men to where Dean thrashed on the bed. “Get the fuck off me!”

John didn’t have a clear enough view to see what they were doing, but he could hear the panic edging Dean’s shouts. He tried to stand to rush to his son only to find his feet and arms bound to the chair and another rope constricted tightly around his chest. The man he didn’t recognize stood over him with a hand on his shoulder to steady him from tipping the chair.

“Holy hell, that’s one fine, perky ass,” Howard said. Even if John hadn’t been able to make out the words, the tone alone would’ve been enough to bring a foul taste to his mouth.

John’s view of Dean cleared when Peter stumbled backwards, clutching his nose and cursing up a storm. Dean leapt up on the mattress and sent a sharp jab to Howard’s jaw. His boxers were down around his ankles. John’s stomach churned, knowing that they hadn’t just slipped off.

As Dean jumped from the bed, Jerry grabbed a hold of his boxers, yanking Dean’s feet from beneath him. Dean hit the floor hard, barely making it into a roll before impact.

“You little shit,” Peter spat down at Dean. John strained against the ropes that held him at the thud of Peter’s boot impacting Dean’s ribs. “Get him up and get that damn shirt off.”

Howard hauled Dean up by his waist as if he weighed nothing at all. Dean struggled to nail Howard with his elbow until Jerry grabbed his arms, jerking off his t-shirt and tossing it to the floor. They let Dean go just long enough for Howard to shift his grip to Dean’s arms, wrenching them behind his back.

Dean stood with his chest heaving, silently begging John to do something. There wasn't even anything John could say. Dean nodded and looked away, forcing his expression blank. Dean knew what John hadn't. He couldn't protect his own son.

Peter retrieved his fallen cigarette, twirling it in his fingers before breathing life back into the smoldering butt. Dean sneered as Peter exhaled a cloud of smoke inches from his face.

The man stepped back and wiped his swelling nose with the cuff of his shirt. Anger flared in his eyes at the streak of blood that was left behind. He growled and cracked a hard fist into Dean’s nose.

“This is one of my favorite shirts, you little prick.”

Dean blinked away the tears that reflexively sprung to his eyes and shook off the hit. He leveled his gaze on Peter. John saw himself in the quiet defiance. Some fathers coached their sons on how to handle themselves during a job interview. John had taught his boy how to stoically face down men who’d beat the shit out of him regardless.

“Then you shouldn’t use it to wipe your snot,” Dean said.

Peter backhanded Dean, snapping his head to the side. “He’s adorable Johnny, real fucking adorable.”

John’s throat was too tight with anger to speak, but he let his eyes convey the promise of how many ways he was going to rip Peter apart. The man had already crossed the line where John could be appeased by a simple bullet.

Peter was too cocky of a bastard to realize he was a dead man. He only smirked at John before focusing his gaze back on Dean. “At least you’re a pretty little bitch.”

The words twisted Dean’s features and he spit blood so that the specks splattered over the front of Peter’s formerly white shirt. Peter’s hand shot out to clutch Dean’s throat. Dean tried to twist free, but Howard pinned him in place.

As he choked him, Peter leaned in close enough for his lips to brush over Dean’s split cheek. “Like father, like son, huh? Well, this’ll be a lesson for you both then.”

Dean’s hoarse gasping was replaced with a strangled whimper. Peter stepped aside to give John a full view of what he was doing. The man’s hand was between Dean’s legs stroking his limp cock. Dean tried to knee Peter away.

John jerked so hard in his chair it would’ve fallen over if not for the man standing beside him, whose grip dug into his aching shoulder. "Get your filthy hands off my son!"

“This is all about learning to share, Johnny.” Peter’s smile was easy as he glanced over his shoulder. “What’s ours is apparently yours so it only stands to reason...” Peter reached further between Dean’s legs, ignoring Dean’s efforts to squeeze his thighs together tightly enough to block the invading hand. “What’s yours must also be ours.”

Peter twisted Dean’s balls hard enough that Dean tried to cry out despite lacking the needed air. With a pat to Dean’s thigh, Peter released the hand from his throat. He took the cigarette from between his lips and blew another puff of smoke into Dean’s watering eyes as Dean coughed.

“Where do you want me to put it out?” Peter asked with a gesture of his cigarette.

“What?” Dean rasped.

Peter pressed in, flaring up the red tip before again presenting it to Dean. “Where do you want me to put this out?”

Dean’s cheeks were red and his eyes disoriented as he looked blankly at Peter. John would burn Peter alive if the man was asking what he thought he was.

When Dean’s focus returned he locked his gaze with Peter’s. “In your eye, you fucking son of a bitch.”

Peter laughed a humorless chuckle before he slapped Dean’s thigh hard enough to blush the skin. He looked to the others. “He really is just cute as a button, isn’t he?” His gaze narrowed back on Dean, eyes darkening. “You mouthy little bitch.”

Dean kicked out when Peter again grabbed for his cock. Howard pulled Dean’s arms back further and Jerry jumped in to force Dean’s thighs still and spread for Peter. The man stoked Dean while taking one more long drag before smashing the glowing, red hot tip of the cigarette against the head of Dean’s cock. Dean’s initial grunt shattered into a pain-filled cry that ripped out what little was left of John’s sanity.

Peter calmly continued to grind the smoldering butt into the tender skin as Dean’s legs began to shake. Dean’s pants were ragged and his eyes squeezed tightly closed by the time Peter was satisfied. Peter tossed the pulverized butt to the cabin floor and resumed jerking Dean off, his thumb digging against the burnt skin.

John’s clutched fists strained against the ropes. When he spoke, his voice was low and tone frigid. “I will kill you.”

“You’re not as hot as you think you are, but hey, you’re welcome to give it a shot after the show.” Peter’s free hand ran over Dean’s hip. “Of course, I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Boy definitely got his looks from his mommy. Do you think about her while you fuck him?”

John's rage was too thick for him to even begin to form a sentence. It was Dean who spoke shaky words laced with fury. “You shut your goddamn mouth.”

Peter quirked a brow at Howard. “I think the boy doth protest too much.” He leaned into Dean. “I suppose you’re gonna tell me you’re a virgin.”

“Do I look like a fucking virgin to you?” Dean asked.

Peter released Dean’s swelling cock after a sharp squeeze that rumbled a groan deep in Dean’s throat. Dean was being tortured and molested close enough to him that John could see the beads of sweat trailing down his flushed skin. The anger at these men and himself was suffocating, but he was transfixed by the expression on his son’s face. He knew it was a mask to cover the fear and pain beneath, but it was so solidly put in place that even John had trouble seeing past it.

Dean didn’t struggle as Jerry and Howard bent him forward and only shivered as Howard’s hand rubbed over his ass. Howard’s fingers slid down further, doing something that made Dean jerk away. Another wave of rage washed over John. It wasn’t the quiet, pained sound Dean had made as much as the amused laughter it triggered from the men restraining him.

Peter patted Dean’s shoulder. “Tell your daddy whether he’s about to watch his baby boy’s virgin ass be ripped open or if you’re not about to lose as much innocence as he’d like to think.”

Dean flinched and continued to stare at the ground, his head ducked too far for John to see his face. Howard jerked Dean back upright and Peter slid in beside him. Dean's eyes rolled back as Peter pinched the burnt head of his cock.

Peter smirked. “Is that a bashful blush or are you a little cock sucker?”

"Why don't you let me suck your cock and find out?" Dean snarled. He bared his teeth to make his meaning clear.

“You wanna play, boy? Go right ahead. I got a whole carton of cigarettes out in the car.” Peter snickered when Dean immediately looked down. “That’s what I thought. Now say ‘Daddy, I’m a virgin’, or ‘Daddy, I’m a horny little cock whore’.”

John expected a quick, sarcastic reply that would only find more trouble for Dean, but his son remained quiet. When Dean’s eyes met his, John’s breath caught in his throat. Dean's expression was exposed and questioning, as if he thought John honestly cared what the answer was.

He knew Dean liked girls, but John didn’t want to think that Dean had also been with men and felt he had to hide it from him. He didn’t give a damn who Dean slept with as long as he was careful about it. The thought that Dean might like boys as well made the fact that these men were abusing him only enrage John further.

Howard gave Dean’s ass a harsh slap, pulling them both back to the moment. “Cat got your tongue, boy?”

Dean swallowed hard. "I’m not a whore."

“Say it like I told you to,” Peter said as he twisted his fingers viciously around the tip of Dean’s cock.

“Fuck! You fucking son of a bitch,” Dean nearly sobbed the words. He gasped until his breath steadied. “Dad I....goddamn it!”

Peter made a tisking sound before releasing his pressure on Dean’s swelling cock. “That’s not what I told you to say." He grabbed a handful of Dean’s dirty blond hair and jerked his head up so that it was pointed in John’s direction. "Last chance.”

Dean choked out the words, “Daddy, I’m a virgin.”

“Hallelujah!” Howard slapped Dean's ass with a laugh. “We're gonna have to draw straws to see who gets to be the first to go where no man has gone before.” His hand moved dangerously low before he pulled away. “First, I’m taking those lips for a test drive.”

Howard released his grip, letting Dean slump to the floor. Dean's fists curled the moment he was free, but he didn’t throw a punch. He only forced his hands to relax. John felt the reason jammed hard against the base of his skull.

“You do as you’re told or we’ll be using your daddy’s brains for lube,” Peter said. “Now get on your knees where you belong.”

Dean glanced between Peter and the man holding the gun before he moved to kneel in front of Howard. He ran his tongue over his bloody lips, taking in measured breaths as Howard unzipped his pants.

“It’ll be the last thing you do.” John growled the warning through gritted teeth.

Howard chuckled softly beneath his breath without even sparing John a glance. His eyes were locked on Dean as he reached beneath his large belly to pull out his already hard cock.

“I’ve had a lot of talented bitches on their knees,” Howard said. “You better make this fucking good.”

John had received his fair share of blowjobs. He still wouldn’t know the first thing about giving one, but Dean didn’t look uncertain. He didn’t hesitate before running his tongue down the length of Howard’s thick cock, circling the tip and sucking it in. Dean’s eye lashes tangled as he squeezed his eyes tightly closed. John’s chest hurt so badly it was difficult to draw in air as he watched his naked son’s head bob up and down while his fingers fondled Howard's balls.

“Holy mother of...fuck,” Howard gasped.

His hands buried into Dean’s rumpled hair, gripping tightly as his passive movements became demanding. He bucked his hips into Dean’s face, forcing himself further down Dean’s throat. John had no concept as to how his son wasn’t choking.

Howard came hard with one last solid thrust into Dean’s mouth before he released Dean’s hair. Dean gasped sharply when Howard jerked him up by his arm. The man’s breath was still uneven as he gripped Dean’s bicep hard enough that Dean winced.

Howard narrowed his eyes. “You’re a lying little cock slut, that’s what you are. Ain’t no fucking way that was your first time.” When Dean remained silent, Howard shook him. “Just how many cocks have you sucked, boy?”

Dean shrugged. He remained staring at the floor and biting his swollen lip. John slowly realized that his own mouth was hanging open, which wasn’t helping a damn thing.

“I asked you a question and you’re damn well gonna answer it.”

Howard plopped down on the corner of the bed. He didn't bother to zip himself back up before he used his grip on Dean’s arm to bend him over his lap. The man didn’t hesitate to wrap his arm around Dean’s waist and give a solid smack to his upturned ass. Dean jerked, but didn’t make a sound.

Despite how John saw his son, he wasn’t a little boy anymore. Dean was nearly a match for John in height and was filling out. He would have looked ridiculous draped over most men’s lap, but Howard was large enough that he had no problem steadying Dean despite the fact his limbs dangled to the floor.

“Didn’t your daddy teach you to respect your elders?” Howard asked after another hard slap.

Dean squirmed on Howard’s lap. “You’re no elder. You’re just plain old.”

“And your ass is gonna wish your mouth knew when to shut the fuck up.”

Dean shifted his position, seeming to know what was coming as Howard tightened his grip on his waist. The man’s heavy hand began to fall hard and fast. The barrage of hits was soon enough that Dean’s legs were jerking despite his attempt to lie still.

The impacts of flesh against flesh fell to the background when John heard a zipper being undone. Jerry stepped forward, fisting his leaking cock. He met John’s eyes with a challenging stare before he moved to stand in front of Dean’s face, smearing pre-come over his gasping lips.

“Keep those teeth in check,” Jerry warned.

Dean was already panting before Jerry shoved into his mouth. Howard began to alternate between spanking and fondling. Despite the unwanted attention, Dean somehow settled on a rhythm as he worked Jerry’s cock. Unlike Howard, Jerry was quiet, but he didn't let Dean work long before he began brutally hammering into his mouth.

John should have put on a façade that wouldn’t give these men exactly what they’d come for, but he couldn’t do it. Dean was almost close enough to touch, but John couldn’t reach for him. He could only watch uselessly as the man choked Dean with his cock.

As Jerry came, he pulled out and sputtered over Dean’s face. Dean lay draped over Howard’s lap with come trailing down his nose and dripping slowly from his chin. John expected to see his son completely broken, but when Dean opened his eyes it was to glare daggers up at Jerry.

While the man was tucking himself back in, Dean spit his mouth clean. Jerry growled and gripped the nape of Dean’s neck, pulling him off Howard’s lap. Dean stumbled to get his feet beneath him as Jerry dragged him. John winced at the thud as the man threw his son against the dresser.

Jerry hauled him up, looming over Dean and using his body to pin him in place until Dean surrendered and lowered his gaze. It wasn't Jerry who had stopped him. Dean was looking past the man to the one who still held a gun against John’s head.

The fight drained from his body. Dean stood frozen as Jerry’s fingers wiped the blood-strained come from his chin. His eyes closed as the soiled fingers forced past his lips. Dean sucked until they were clean.

Jerry gave an approving nod, but as soon as Dean opened his eyes, the man slapped him with a vicious backhand. The hit nearly sent Dean to the ground. John’s wrists rubbed raw against the unrelenting ropes.

Dean straightened with his hand nursing his already bruising cheek. He furrowed his brow as he looked up at Jerry.

“You really think you were getting off that easy?” Jerry clutched Dean’s arm and pulled him away from the dresser. He smacked Dean's already painfully red ass and shoved him towards the open door. “Get me a switch.”

Dean looked lost in a haze, staring blankly at Jerry. “What?”

John’s clamped his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. Dean couldn’t even know what Jerry was asking. The only switch John had ever taught Dean to select was the one that turned on the Impala’s headlights.

“March your bare ass outside.” Jerry stomped over to Dean and snatched his wrist. As he spoke, he slowly twisted until Dean was almost on his knees. “Find me a switch and bring it back so I can whip your ass bloody.” He shoved Dean down onto the dirty floorboards. “If you make a run for it, we’ll be taking our turns with Papa.”

Dean pushed up so he was on all fours. He slowly got to his feet and kept his gaze down, swallowing hard. “Yes, sir.”

John cursed beneath his breath as those words he’d drilled into Dean slipped from his son’s violated lips. Dean had an opening, but his expression and posture said he wasn’t going to take it.

“Get out of here,” John ordered. “Just get the hell out of here, son.”

Dean eyes looked everywhere but at John. He was calculating the risks, just like he’d been taught, but he was calculating them for the wrong person. Dean didn’t understand that John would rather shoot a bullet into his own skull than even think about these men laying one more finger on his son.

“Dean, go!” Dean jumped at the tone, but didn’t budge. John’s fists curled in frustration. “I mean it, Dean, don’t you dare come back through that door.”

Hurt filled Dean’s eyes, but his expression remained set with determination. He turned away and walked out into the dark night. The sight of Dean leaving should be a relief, but his pace was far too resigned to be leading him anywhere good.

“I didn’t get my fuck in yet,” Howard grumbled.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. He’ll be back.” Peter turned towards John. “That boy of yours is a real peach.”

“And damn talented. You sure know how to raise ‘em right,” Howard said with a snicker. “Between those lips and that ass...bet he spent a lot of time assuming the position just so you could cop a feel.”

John’s tone left no room for question. “I have never, ever, touched my son and I will gut every last man who has.”

“Yeah, that’s just not happening, Johnny,” Peter said. “You’ve earned this. You can play holier than thou, but the truth is pretty damn clear. Now you’ll get to see how pretty he looks from the other side with tears running down those sweet little freckled cheeks while he gets a thrashing to put every one you’ve ever given him to shame.”

“I've never whipped my son.”

John’s stomach twisted when he saw Dean standing back in the doorway. His shoulders were hunched and he was shivering from the assault of the cold night’s air. In his hand, he clutched a switch already stripped of its leaves. John was at a loss for words as he watched his son walk past him to present it to Jerry.

“You’re daddy says he ain’t never whipped you,” Jerry said as he flexed the supple sapling wood. “That true?”

Dean nodded.

Jerry grabbed Dean, twisting him around so that Dean’s back was pressed against his chest. He brought the switch down onto Dean’s still half-erect cock. Several more swift flicks and Dean’s legs were trembling.

“What’s that?” Jerry snapped the switch over the tip of Dean’s burnt cock. Dean's knees buckled. Jerry gripped him tight to his chest and spoke against his ear. “You’re gonna have to speak up, boy.”

“My dad never whipped me,” Dean mumbled between gasped breaths. “He’s not a stupid ass son of a bitch like you.”

John had never touched Dean, but it was clear that someone had. The walls crashed down around John. He felt too sick to moderate the emotions on his face and realized too late that Peter was watching.

Peter smiled. “Truth or dare then.”

Jerry nodded in apparent agreement and shoved Dean towards the bed. Dean walked stiffly and let Jerry guide him to bend so his chest lay over the mattress. His legs sprawled over the floor with the height of the bed too low for him to get his feet under him, but too high to kneel.

Dean gripped the blankets beneath him as Jerry leaned over to press his hand down at the small of his back. The man tapped the switch against Dean’s exposed ass, testing his aim before slashing it down several times in rapid succession. Dean buried his face in the covers.

Peter's hand slid over Dean's already welting skin before squeezing the battered flesh. “By that, I mean you tell the truth or Jerry whips it out of you.” He walked around to crouch beside where Dean hid his face. “And believe me, beautiful, he really wants to whip you.”

Peter patted Dean's shoulder and rose to his feet. He rubbed his hands together as he took his place at the foot of the bed beside Jerry. “Let’s start with an easy one, kid. Who taught you how to cut such a fine switch?”

Dean tensed his shoulders and tightened his grip on the covers. Three sharp strikes landed over his bruising skin. Dean didn't make a sound, but John winced. 

The narrow diameter of the switch made it look as if it couldn’t have enough force behind it to hurt and the whistles as it fell were quiet compared to the slapping of a hand. But the truth was clear in the pained jerks that rocked Dean’s body with each strike. The switch didn’t deliver the blunt force that a larger stick would, but a sharp cutting sensation that was being laid heavy enough to break skin. John could see the trickles of blood already swelling to the surface where the thin tip bit the hardest.

Jerry brought the switch down once more, hard enough to snap the wood. The man cursed, throwing the piece left in his hand at Dean. John's blood boiled while Peter and Howard laughed at Jerry irately pacing the cabin, spitting threats at Dean.

"You're in for it now, kid," Peter said. "Nothing ruins Jerry's day more than a switch snapping right when he's hit the sweet spot."

Dean flinched at the crash of Jerry throwing open the closet door. He returned to the bed with a wire hanger. John made plans to strangle the man with it as Jerry stood over Dean, stretching out the wire to make a long, thin loop. Jerry leaned in and brought the parallel wires of the modified hanger down over Dean's skin with a hard swoosh. 

Two more slicing whips and Dean turned his head to glance at John. There was something unreadable in his eyes before he again turned away. Numbness sunk deeper into John’s bones as he realized that Dean was planning on taking whatever whipping Jerry dished out just to avoid answering the question.

“Just tell me, Dean.”

John’s tone was desperate. He didn’t want Dean to tell the men who were torturing him. He wanted his son to tell him. He wanted to know who had hurt his boy and needed to understand why Dean had never told him.

“I don’t remember his name,” Dean said. He’d turned his head so his face was no longer buried, but he was looking somewhere far past John. The hanger fell again, several times over the same spot, leaving a quickly rising welt that instantly turned scarlet. “Son of a bitch!” Dean hissed. “I don’t! We were in Georgia and we broke a window. He took me into the woods.”

Jerry snapped the hanger down. “And?”

“And nothing! That was it. He told me what kind of stick to get and made me get one every night until Dad came back.”

Carl Jackson, John’s memory supplied. The recluse had lived in the woods of Georgia. John had left the boys with him for a week while he’d been on a last minute hunt that was far too dangerous to drag his sons near. Carl had been a respected hunter capable of protecting the boys if the monster doubled back. Dean had been old enough to watch Sam on his own, anyway, of course he had since he was five. John had broken every speed limit to get back when Dean had called.

Dean had sounded like he’d been crying, but had refused to say what was wrong. John had been pissed as hell to come back and find that apparently nothing was wrong. Even Carl had said there hadn’t been any trouble. The bastard had left out the fact that he’d been beating John’s son every night.

“Did he touch you?” Peter asked.

Dean glared up at him. “Well, yeah, he hit me with a damn stick, dumb ass.”

Jerry leaned in and whipped him with hard, steady strokes until Dean was short of breath. When he was finished, he balanced the bent hanger on the small of Dean’s back and stepped aside. Peter took his place. He didn’t take up the hanger, but rubbed his hands over the welted skin, squeezing the flesh until Dean groaned. His fingers slipped down to tug Dean's balls.

“Did he touch you like this?” Peter asked.

Dean shook his head.

“So he just liked to look at your marked up ass? I bet he wasn't the only guy who gave you a spanking, was he? And I bet the rest used their hands.”

Dean didn’t deny it. John’s anger flared white hot at the thought of anyone he’d left his boys with telling his sons to drop their pants for any reason. He’d never told anyone they could take a hand to his boy and he couldn’t believe that Dean would have let them. Or at least that's what he wanted to believe. 

Dean made it sound as if he and Sam had broken the window, but that Carl had only beaten him. Dean never would have let anyone touch Sam, that much John was certain of, but he’d ordered Dean to follow the instructions of those he’d stayed with as if they were John’s own orders. He’d never stopped to consider what some of those outcasts on the fringes of society might ask of Dean.

“I can’t blame them,” Peter said. He brought his hand down on Dean’s ass before moving aside to let Jerry take up the hanger again. “Now who taught you how to suck cock like a goddamn porn star?”

“Just some guy,” Dean whispered.

The wire whipped down until Dean’s legs were involuntarily jerking and the hurt sounds he made were as steady as the hanger’s swooshing of air. John was rocking in his chair again by the time Jerry stopped.

“Let’s try an actual, full name,” Peter said. “I know your remember this one, sweetheart.”

“Just Jeff.”

Jerry lifted the hanger again, but John’s sharp intake of breath must have given away that he knew who it was. Just Jeff was the full name.

Jeff was a hunter in Tampa Bay who’d had a thing for straw hats and pool parties. The boys had stayed with him for a weekend before Sam had called to say Dean was sick. John had tried to focus on the hunt, but had gotten so tired of the repeat calls that he’d gone and picked up the boys. Dean hadn’t been sick and John had been too furious to care what Dean’s problem actually was.

“Dad, I never let anyone touch Sam, I swear.”

Never. This had happened to Dean more than once. John couldn’t see straight. He couldn’t even breathe. All he could see was his boy being backed into a corner and forced to his knees.

“Now for the big one," Peter said. "How many times were you raped?” 

“What?” Dean sounded shocked by the question, even indignant. “Never.”

And somehow that gutted John more than anything Dean could have said. By his tone it was clear that Dean honestly believed that. He thought men bending him over ass bared for no reason at all or shoving their cocks into his mouth wasn’t rape.

Peter flicked his finger over the tender head of Dean’s burnt cock. “Did you beg Jeff to let you drink his come?”

“No...stop!” Dean yelped, kicking his leg back as Peter’s tightened his grip. "Damn it!" He pounded his fist into the mattress. "Just stop it."

"When you get to the good stuff, sweetie," Peter said. 

"I don't know what you want me to say." Dean's words were earnest enough that Peter did stop, waiting for Dean to continue. "I didn’t know what he was doing. I just...I was supposed to listen to him...and I did.”

“Goddamn it, Dean,” John cursed.

Dean flinched and John wanted to explain himself, but didn’t know how. He didn’t even know if he could and he sure as hell wasn’t going to try while Dean was in the middle of being raped again. It came down to the fact that Dean didn’t question, even when he should, and that was on John.

John had also gone out of his way not to see how some men looked at his son. He’d always thought they were just looks. Maybe if it had been Sam, he would’ve worried, but he’d always known Dean could take could take care of himself. And Dean could take any human and a lot of monsters. What John had never considered was that Dean wouldn’t try, that he would think he should fall in line even if it meant letting others abuse him.

“Was he the only one?” Peter asked.

When he didn’t get an answer, Peter parted the cheeks of Dean ass and nodded to Jerry, who aimed the hanger, tapping the bend in the wire against Dean's hole. Dean looked over his shoulder and saw what they were doing. He grimaced and returned his face to the blankets. He could beat off these men, but he just lay there and let them part his legs further while biting down on the blanket to muffle his screams.

They weren't restraining him at all and John could see the pain radiating clear up to Dean's knotted shoulders. John didn't even know how Dean was physically able to lay there as Peter slashed the wire over the freshly exposed, delicate skin. 

John jumped as a hand clamped over his own groin. He looked up to see Howard. His clumsy fingers worked John’s limp cock through the denim of his jeans. As the others whipped his son, Howard teased a groan from John. His cock twitched at the friction regardless of the cold, empty pit inside him.

"Was it just Jeff?" Peter asked again. 

“No,” Dean finally huffed. “But...the other ones I asked for.”

“Because you liked it?” Peter asked.

“No. ‘Cause Jeff said...” Dean’s words trailed off until a stroke cut over his thigh. “He said guys would pay to pound lips like mine....and he was right.”

John wanted to cover his ears. He wanted to kick Howard away and kill every last man in this room along with every other man who had ever looked at his son.

“You go whoring yourself out after that?” Peter’s thumb absently ran over Dean’s hardened cock. “Showing off your new skills?”

Dean stared towards the corner of the room. “It was easy cash.”

His tone and the look in his eyes said it had been anything but that. John had never asked this of Dean. He never would have, but he couldn’t count the number of times he’d dumped their financial problems on his eldest. Since he’d barely started school, John had been on Dean about money, how little they had, how much they needed. He’d drilled in that sometimes it meant doing things they didn’t want to. 

He’d never meant for Dean to think this. Even on his darkest day, he would’ve never even began to consider letting either of his sons be violated for any reason. Least of all for money that John had just put into bullets and boozes.

“You really are a little cock whore.” Peter’s lips curled up in a slimy smile as he looked up from Dean to John. “You must be so proud.”

John was too busy searching his memory to really hear Peter’s words. All he could think of was Dean at the bars disappearing into the bathroom or coming in from the alley door. Sometimes, when John had gone looking for him he’d found Dean with his hair mused, eyes dazed and cheeks flushed.

Half the time he’d ignored it, the other half he’d chewed Dean out for grabbing quickies with some girl instead of pulling his weight with the hustling. In retrospect, he realized that look in Dean’s eyes hadn’t been guilt over getting caught slacking off.

John was a damn fool. He’d never questioned how Dean came back with so much more money than he’d wagered on his games. Dean had been letting men use him while John had been right there with him. He’d thought he’d been protecting his boy.

They did something to Dean that made him cry out. John was jerked back to the present and the sight of Jerry shoving Dean to the floor. Dean didn’t try to get up. He didn’t even bother to catch himself.

“I think it’s time we show your daddy just how much you’ve perfected this fine talent,” Peter said.

Dean’s head jerked up. “No. Please.” His eyes filled with panic. “Do whatever you want to me. Just leave him out of it.”

John choked down a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Dean’s words were so far beyond ridiculous that he couldn’t believe that his son had managed to say them with a straight face. It was as if Dean honestly believed that so far John had been left out of this.

“Sorry, son,” Peter petted Dean’s head. “No one’s going anywhere.”

Dean slapped away the hand caressing his hair and Peter responded with a punch. Blood dripped from Dean's mouth onto the cabin’s floor where Dean stayed crouched at Peter’s feet. He looked like a viper waiting to strike, but so many moments had come and gone and Dean hadn’t taken any of them.

“You see,” Peter said, “We haven’t even gotten to why we’re here.”

Peter gestured to the man who hadn’t yet spoken, the one who had been holding the gun to John. Jerry switched positions with the man who walked over to the bag he’d brought.

“This is Seth,” Peter said. “He’s an old friend of a friend who owed me a favor and he’s got a special talent that he doesn’t get to practice as much as he’d like. But he does hate you, Johnny, which seems to be a theme.”

Seth reached into the bag and pulled out a tangle of something. John's stomach twisted when he realized it was a cat o’ nine. The man who held it smiled wickedly as he untangled the knotted, leather cords.

“His granddaddy used to work the naval ships in the British fleet. Using it is quite an art and Seth here learned from the best. You’re going to have a rare opportunity, son,” Peter told Dean. “Unless you don’t feel like playing along anymore then your daddy takes your place and...well, it doesn’t end so well for him.”

A knife flicked over John’s throat. The razor-sharp blade scraped the lower hair from his beard and settled at his jugular. John had half a mind to jerk forward and slit his throat himself as he watched Dean’s tongue dart out over his bloody lips.

Dean stepped towards him and John couldn't help but see the blood trailing down his straining cock where the hard whips of the switch had cut the delicate skin. His thighs were smeared with blood as he lowered himself to his knees between John’s legs.

“Dean, no.”

Dean didn’t look up. He just reached for the button of John’s jeans. His fingers shook as he unfastened it. John tried to scoot his hips back when Dean grasped the zipper.

It wasn’t the first time Dean had unzipped his pants. Dean had undressed him before to attend to injuries and John had more than once woken up beneath the covers in only his underwear after having passed out drunk in gore-soaked jeans. John had never given it a second thought and hadn’t thought that Dean had either. But now all he could see was his son unzipping some old bastard of a truck driver in a grungy back alley or letting some slob push him down in a dirty bathroom stall.

“Dad, I’m sorry."

The whisper was barely audible, but cut John to the core. He couldn’t be the one to do this to Dean again. He twisted his hips as far as he could manage.

“Don't you touch me," John barked. 

“That’s right, Johnny.” Peter laughed. “You just keep on saying 'no'. That way your boy can know what it’s like to do the raping himself.”

When John looked down, what little he could see of Dean’s eyes told him that Peter was right. Dean was doing this regardless. He couldn’t live with his father being killed because he hadn’t sucked him off, anymore than John could live with this being what Dean had to do to keep him alive.

John couldn’t think of anything to say, probably couldn’t have forced coherent words from his mouth if he’d had to. He tried to say it with his eyes, but Dean had dropped his head too far to see John’s face.

Dean pulled down the zipper, releasing the pressure of John’s jeans on his cock, which was already hardened from Howard’s hand job. With uncertain movements, Dean pulled down the last layer of cotton, fully exposing John’s erection. Dean startled back.

John understood what Howard had been doing when he saw the shattered expression on Dean’s face. Dean had been looking the other way while Howard had been working John over. His son thought he’d gotten hard watching them beat and rape him.

“Dean—”

John’s protest was cut short as Jerry gagged him. The man stuffed Dean’s shirt into John’s mouth and knotted it tightly behind his head.

“Looks like your daddy thinks you’re a pretty little bitch, too,” Peter said as he squeezed the back of Dean's neck.

Dean closed his eyes and sucked in a breath through his blood-stained teeth. When he opened his eyes again, they were deader. He scrubbed his hand over his face and steeled himself before leaning forward to take John’s swollen cock into his trembling hand.

Then the hesitation vanished. It was as if Dean just wasn’t there anymore. His hand slipped further down to cup John’s balls while his tongue teased over the tip of his cock. The warm heat sucked him in and John couldn’t bury the moan that forced up in his throat as Dean worked up his rigid shaft.

Dean’s movements were seemingly easy, but methodical. His son was pretending, or worse, might even think that John was just another man getting off on his pretty face and shattered innocence.

Pretty.

John had never thought that of Dean before. Dean was his son and one of the two strongest young men he had ever met. But he should have seen it. He should have thought about why those men in the skanky bars he’d dragged his boy to had looked at Dean that way. He should have really considered how much of Mary he could see on Dean’s face. He should have taken the time to see Dean, but he hadn’t and now his cock was swelling in his son’s mouth and he wasn’t even strong enough to stop that.

Other men had done this to Dean. He’d endured it enough times that he had a place he could go to in order to survive it. The sickness that washed over him wasn’t enough to quell John’s physical reaction to what Dean was doing with his mouth. John’s hips thrust forward as Dean sucked hard, drawing down John's cock until the head popped free from his lips.

He dragged his hot tongue back up the hardened length. At the base of John’s cock, Dean tilted his head so his tongue could lap beneath and sucked each of John’s balls into his mouth. John closed his eyes, biting as hard as he could on the gag to muffle his groan.

His eyes shot open again at the sound of footsteps approaching. Peter came up behind Dean and clasped his hips. He forced him to shift his position from kneeling to being on all fours. Dean didn’t seem to question it, only returned to John’s cock, this time without the benefit of his hands.

Peter kicked Dean’s legs further apart and reached between them. “There you go now, you little slut. Finish getting yourself off.”

Dean’s pressure on John only faltered for a moment as he braced himself with one hand and reached down to stroke his abused cock with the other. As he did, Peter squeezed something from a tube to slick his fingers before pushing inside of Dean. Dean’s protest rumbled in his throat, vibrating around John’s shaft.

Peter’s fingers worked Dean open as Dean’s moth continued to suckle John’s cock and his hand pumped over his own. Dean’s pained whimpers resonated through John’s entire body.

John came with a burst of desperation, spurting down his son's throat. He could barely see Dean lapping his cock clean through the moisture that blurred his vision. Dean was still pumping his own blood-lubricated cock and cried out, John thought he was climaxing, but it seemed to be whatever Peter was doing with his fingers.

“Fucking hell, Pete. Don’t loosen him up too, much,” Howard said. “Here, give him to me. I’ll show him how a real man fucks.”

Howard dragged Dean to his feet. Dean’s cock curled up towards his belly, so close to coming, but it was Howard’s heavy cock, already filling again that horrified John. The man stood Dean so close to John that Dean’s bare thigh brushed against his knee. John spewed unheard threats through the gag as Howard pulled Dean close. Dean looked diminutive backed against the monster of a man.

When Howard thrust into Dean, John screamed right along with his son. Dean’s head tilted back, face twisted in agony as the sharp, hammering motions tore inside him. One hand steadied Dean’s hips, forcing them further back onto Howard’s cock, while the other reached around to jerk Dean off.

“Knew you’d like this,” Howard gasped breathlessly.

Dean blinked back tears as his come splattered over John’s jeans. He collapsed back against Howard, who moved both hands to his hips, plunging deeper inside him.

“Best whore I’ve ever fucked...shit, boy.” Howard bent Dean forward, forcing him to steady himself with his hands on John’s knees. “I’m keeping you.”

Dean was right there, close enough that John could have leaned forward to kiss the top of his head. His hurt, hitched breaths filled John’s ears as Dean clutched his come-splattered jeans just to keep his feet beneath him. His grip was bruising and his shoulders shaking. The chair creaked under their combined weight and the force of Howard’s thrusts.

“Fuck!” Howard exclaimed as he came inside of Dean.

Howard road out his orgasm then held Dean to his chest a moment longer before dropping him. With Howard’s support gone, Dean collapsed forward on top of John. He slid to the floor and kneeled propped up against John’s leg. John could feel Dean’s entire body shuddering as Howard rambled off things John couldn’t bear to hear said about his son.

His son, his baby boy, who refused to leave his side, was tucked naked and beaten between his legs. John had sworn to protect him. That’s why he hadn’t wanted his boys out in the world, but when push came to shove all he could do was scream useless threats against the shirt his son should be wearing.

Dean could leave. He’d already walked out the door and chosen to come back without realizing how much worse watching Dean suffer was. John wasn’t afraid of death, but he couldn’t live with this.

John growled as Peter returned to stroking Dean’s hair. The touch was intimate and possessive. His hand traveled down the tight muscles of Dean’s back. His touch slipped low enough to start fingering Dean again.

Whether it was being cornered or that he’d just been pushed too far, Dean surged up from where he was hunkered. He threw a brutal punch into Peter’s face, knocking the man backwards to sprawl over the floor and ran for the far side of the room. 

Howard intercepted. He grabbed a hold of Dean's arm and threw him into the wall. Dean thudded against it and fell to the floor. He pushed up with a fresh gash seeping blood from his brow, but scrambled to his feet. Even dazed, he was far more spry than Howard. He darted in with a punch before skittering away from the dazed giant. 

John finally realized what Dean had been looking at. Dean hadn’t been staring blankly at the corner. He’d been tracing where John’s gun must have fallen during the fight.

Dean dove towards the dresser. His hand came out from beneath it with the weapon. He scrambled back to his feet, prepared to fire.

“Let him go,” Dean ordered.

His voice was raspy, but determined as he pointed the gun at Peter. The man had just climbed off the floor with blood freshly flowing from his nose. He raised his hands in surrender. Although his body read of submission, he chuckled as he looked Dean over.

“Would you look at that? Daddy’s little girl has got some balls after all.” Peter took a step closer to Dean. “Go ahead. Take your best shot, gorgeous. Shoot wherever you like. The next shot will hit your old man in the same spot.”

The cold steel of Jerry’s gun was already digging into John’s temple. Dean’s aim remained unsteadily on Peter, though his expression became uncertain. John screamed against the gag for Dean to take the shot. Dean’s eyes locked with John’s long enough for him to read exactly what John wanted, but he didn’t fire. Instead, he set the gun into Peter’s outstretched hand.

An instant later, Howard and Seth rushed him. Dean didn’t try to evade them. He only stood tensed and let them tackle him. The two large men dragged him over to the bed and threw him face down onto the mattress while Peter dug through Seth’s bag.

“Play time’s over, you bitchy little slut.” Peter walked over to the bed, still clutching his nose and holding a set of ropes in his other hand. “Time to get you on a leash.”

The choice of the words was the same as before, but Peter’s tone had changed dramatically. What had been amusement had shifted to something far more dangerous. They were all handling Dean differently, holding him down hard as the ropes were tied, not taking the chance of him slipping free. It was as if they’d just caught on to the fact that Dean could kill them all. John was the only thing holding him back.

They tied Dean face down, spread eagle over the bed. John could clearly see for the first time the extent of the whipping Dean had been giving. Streaks of blood from the deeper strokes were smeared over his ass and the back of his thighs. Even the skin that hadn’t been spit was clearly welted over forming bruises.

It was bad, but nothing like what would be delivered by the cat Seth was taking practice swings with on the other side of the room. He became all the more sick when he saw how expertly the man wielded the whip. John’s wrists twisted furiously against the ropes that held him, searching for a weak point in the knots.

“You wanna play with guns?” Peter trailed John’s pistol up one of Dean’s spread legs. “Fine, we’ll play.”

He traced the crease of Dean's ass down to his slick thighs. Dean jerked against the ropes that held him and John did the same. Peter ignored them both and worked the gun’s tip past the tight muscles of Dean’s clenched opening.

The entrance was slow, but the intention to hurt was clear in Peter’s darkened eyes. Once it was in, he began fucking Dean with the barrel. John’s dry mouth hollered against the saliva-soaked gag as he watched his cocked gun jam with brutal, unrelenting thrusts into his son. Peter shoved the weapon in once more, twisting it to bury it up to the trigger and leaving the weight of the butt propped up against the mattress. 

“That tight ass of yours can hug that for comfort while Seth flays the skin clean off you.” Peter strutted over to stand near John and turned Dean's head to face him. "But Seth stops and the gun comes out whenever you want, sugar pie, just say the words."

Dean's hips shifted uncomfortably and his breaths were erratic. The pain in his eyes was clear, but despite his grimace, his glance to Peter was disinterested. He only clenched his jaw harder as the man's finger trailed over his lower lip.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed and wiped the sweat from Dean's brow. "Don't you want to know what the magic words are?"

"Bite me," Dean rasped.

"Close, but no cookie." Peter lightly slapped Dean's swollen cheek. "It all stops when you beg me to fuck you."

"Son of a bitch," Dean murmured beneath his breath. He cleared his throat and steeled his eyes before looking up. "And my dad? You'll let him go?"

"Johnny is a separate negotiation. This is about saving your own hide and all you gotta do is ask for one quick fuck."

"From your skanky dick? Yeah, that's just not happening, Petey," Dean said, mimicking the tone Peter had spoken to John. "I hope your boy ate his Wheeties this morning 'cause he's gonna be doing a lot of damn swinging."

"Tough talk for a whore with a loaded gun shoved up his ass." Peter rubbed Dean's shoulder and stood. "But have it your way, hot stuff. It's only skin off your back." 

Dean squeezed his eyes closed as soon as Peter stepped away from the bed. He was scared. Dean was hiding it well enough that the others probably couldn't even see it, but John could. 

Seth gave the cat o' nine one last flick before stepping over to the bed. He ran his hand over Dean’s shoulders as if studying the terrain. There was no other build up before the man took a step back, raised the whip and cracked it down over Dean’s stretched back with a cold thud.

It only took a few strokes from the biting thongs before the pale skin of Dean’s back turned an angry red. John didn’t have enough of his mind left to count how many times the steady blows fell before the blood began to rise to the surface of the crossing welts. Dean’s bound hands were clutched into fists. He made a muffled grunt with each strike, but compared to John, he’d fallen frighteningly quiet.

"Two simple words," Peter said. "'Fuck me'." 

"I got three for you," Dean huffed. "Go fuck yourself."

His words were barely a pained gasp, but the defiance was clear. It tore into John because he knew if he was the one they were whipping, Dean wouldn't have even let them start. Dean looked intent on dying before he let Peter touch him, which was what John would have expected from his son, but when it had been John on the line, Dean had barely hesitated to let himself be fucked by two other men and his own damn father.

John flinched at every stroke Seth laid over his son's back. By the time the man moved to the other side of the bed, the forceful impacts had scraped Dean’s back raw, bruising into the muscle and cutting his beaten flesh. Thin, scarlet lines trickled down his heaving side. 

Seth raised the whip again, but Peter stepped forward before it was brought down. John was shaking nearly as hard as Dean. He stared numbly at his bloody and bound boy, spread over the same bed he’d been sprawled peacefully over what seemed a lifetime ago.

"Hell's bells, boy." Peter leaned over Dean to examine his back. "If you don't speak up, there ain't gonna be nothing left of you to fuck. Endurance, balls, a tight ass...” Peter thrust the gun that had nearly slipped out of Dean back in. “And let’s not forget that pretty doll face. You just got it all, don’t ya?”

Peter sounded genuinely impressed and he had every reason to be. They'd just flogged the hell out of him and Dean had made less fuss than most people would over stubbing their toe. Dean was far stronger than any of these men could fathom and Peter seemed to be picking up on that as his hand ran over the untouched skin of Dean’s thigh. His gaze was far too interested.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind taking you with us,” Peter said. “Your daddy’s already got you trained up good. A few more floggings and you’d be the perfect bitch. But I like my sluts with skin so I'll tell what, you get a freebie tonight. I'll call Seth off and we'll skip to the wound tending while you start thinking of ways to thank me.”

Seth returned to the bed with a canister of salt. Dean didn’t look to see what they were doing. John wasn’t even sure that he was conscious until Seth poured a thick layer of course salt crystals over his back. Dean arched up as the rough hands ground the salt over his flayed skin. Seth nodded approvingly and continued to massage the torn flesh until the white crystals dissolved into the mess of blood. He wiped his hands over the blankets, leaving dark crimson streaks and took a step back as if admiring a piece of art.

The only thing that kept John from shutting down completely was imagining an exact copy of the wounds stripped over Peter’s naked back before John shoved a gun up his ass. It was the least of what he was going to do to these men.

Peter cut free the ropes from Dean’s wrists and ankles. Dean didn’t even shift his position. He remained face down, struggling to catch his breath.

“I think we’ve made our point, boys, but I can tell you haven’t learned your lesson, Johnny, and I’d hate to have you nosing around looking for your precious little slut." Peter nodded to Jerry. "Finish him off.”

The gun pressed back against John’s head. He didn’t even flinch. If Jerry didn’t pull the trigger, John would do it himself. Not only had he failed in protecting his family, but Dean lay broken on the bed because of him. It wasn’t just what had happened tonight, but all the other nights Dean had endured. Once John was gone, Dean would fight like he should have all along.

A shot was fired and blood splattered gore sprayed over the wall. Peter collapsed to the ground in a lifeless heap. All the men stood in stunned silence.

Before anyone could place the source of the bullet, another shot was fired. Blood rained down over John, and Jerry’s body was left twitching on the ground beside him. Howard scrambled for Jerry’s gun, but didn’t make it before two more shots rang through the still room.

The only man left standing was Dean.

He stood beside the bed on unsteady feet, holding John’s blood-streak gun in his hands. His legs gave out and he collapsed to sit on the edge of the bed, groaning as his weight settled on his cut skin.

An eternity seemed to pass as Dean stared down at the gun in his hands. He checked the clip before pushing off the bed to limp towards the bathroom, ignoring John completely as he shut the door behind him. The lock clicked. 

John screamed against the gag, desperately scanning the room for anything he could use. Seeing Dean’s dagger lying on the floor beside the chair, John leaned to the side far enough to tip over. Pain radiated through is sore shoulder as it took the brunt of the impact. He struggled to scoot far enough to grasp the blade.

His fingers finally wrapped around the sharp edge. The blade nicked cuts into his fingers as he turned it around until he could grab the handle. He worked quickly, cutting as much skin as ropes until he could tear his wrists free.John ripped the gag from his mouth.

“Dean!”

There was no reply. He kept calling out to his son as he cut free the ropes from his chest and ankles. John forced his stiff legs beneath him, stuffed himself back in and refastened his jeans as he rushed for the bathroom.

“Dean, open this door!”

John didn’t give Dean more than a few seconds to comply with the order. He jammed his shoulder into the door, splintering the weak wood and forcing his way into the small bathroom. It was empty.

John’s heart clenched in his chest. His gaze darted to the window. It was still closed and probably too small for Dean to fit through anyway. He also knew Dean wouldn't run even it he was physically able.

John stopped and listened, hearing ragged breaths. There were smears of blood over the ceramic of the tub. John stepped forward to push the partially closed shower curtain aside. Dean knelt with the gun still clutched in his hand, the trigger cocked.

Even as John approached, Dean didn’t pull his focus up. He didn’t even move as John slipped the gun from his suddenly slack fingers.

Under the harsh glare of the bathroom’s bare florescent light, John could see every laceration that crisscrossed Dean’s backside. He slowly realized that was why Dean was on his knees. He must be too tired to stand, but too hurt to sit. A tear swelled over Dean’s lashes. It cut its way down his come and blood crusted cheek, sliding into the groove beside his likely broken nose before trailing down over his split, swollen lips.

John wanted nothing more than to resurrect the men who lay dead in the other room. He released a ragged breath and settled on the edge of the tub beside his son. There was nothing that could ever begin to fix this. He stuck to the one thing he could do.

He reached past Dean to turn on the faucet. Blood had already seeped around Dean’s knees and it colored the water pink. John adjusted the temperate, like he had for Dean’s baths back when his son had been small enough to easily fit into his arms.

John stood to grasp the removable showerhead then sat back down. He adjusted the flow as low as it would go and flicked the switch to turn on the sprayer. He started at Dean’s shoulders, rinsing off the blood and salt, and exposing the depth of the cuts. It wouldn’t help him to find out how badly hurt Dean was on the inside.

For all he knew, Dean’s delicate internal tissue was just as badly torn as his back and he couldn’t bear to look to see how severe the damage to his groin really was. Taking Dean’s cock in hand, even to help, would be just one more violation and John had already violated his son enough.

John didn’t realize he was crying until Dean grasped his hand. Dean’s eyes were cautious, but finally met his. “It’s okay, Dad.”

Dean’s voice was raw but his tone carried no question. John’s next breath was a sob. It wasn’t okay, it hadn’t been okay for so much longer than John had realized. He set aside the sprayer and pulled his stunned son to his chest. He clutched onto a spot of Dean’s shoulder where the whip hadn’t fallen. He buried his head in Dean’s blood-splattered hair.

“Why?” It was the one word screaming in John’s mind and he didn’t know if he was even asking Dean, or if he was asking this godforsaken world. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Dean pulled away, not quite meeting John’s eyes. “What would I have said?”

John didn’t know. He still wasn’t sure that Dean even understood what had been done to him and it wasn’t as if John had ever been approachable. He’d told Dean to deal with any issues that came up, and Dean had, just not in a way John had ever intended.

“Dean, I never wanted...”

“Yeah, I know.”

Dean didn’t look as if he planned on saying anything further and John couldn’t make himself push, not tonight. He squeezed Dean’s shoulder, wincing as Dean flinched away from the touch. John opened his mouth to apologize, but Dean looked up at him and breathed a sigh of relief. John apparently wasn't who Dean had imagined standing beside him. 

John handed him the shower sprayer before standing up and turning around. He grabbed a couple of towels while letting Dean clean the more intimate areas himself. John's jaw clenched at the hurt sounds Dean couldn’t swallow down. He rubbed his hand over his cheeks and tried to pull himself together for his son. 

He waited a moment after the water had stopped then turned back around. Dean was using the side of the tub to prop himself up, but reached up to take one of the towels to wrap around his waist. John sat back down beside him and used the other towel to dab Dean’s back dry. The blood was already seeping up again.

“How bad is it?” John asked.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. “You tell me.”

When John didn't answer, Dean followed John's eyes to the towel that laid over his lap. His mouth moved as if he was about to speak, but no words came out. He sighed before glancing around the bathroom. 

“I’ll live I guess,” Dean said.

“Dean...”

“Dad, it's fine. It just hurts.”

John's gut twisted. His son admitting that something hurt often equated to a normal person saying they were mortally wounded. John pulled away the towel he'd been patting over Dean's back, grimacing at the mass of welted and split skin that he didn’t even have enough bandages to cover. Dean had given up on kneeling, letting his abused rear rest on his calves as he listed to the side. His eyelids looked heavy and his freckles were dark against his pale skin.

“Come on, we gotta get you to a hospital,” John said. “You’re going into shock.”

“No, I’m not. I'm just tired.” Dean opened his eyes and pushed John’s hands away when he reached to lift him from the tub. “And I'm not fucking paralyzed.” Dean straightened his posture as if it proved anything. “Can you just get my sweats?”

“Dean, I can’t lose you.”

“What? You won’t, Dad.” Dean sighed. "I just...I don’t need a doctor. I don't want anyone else to...” Dean chewed on his battered lip before locking eyes with John. “Dad, please. Just patch me up so we can burn these sons of bitches and get the hell out of here.”

Dean said it like it was easy, like he’d just skinned his knees and John could put a band aid on it and kiss it better. John wished so badly that he could. He wished he could take it all back.

His memory slipped back to that little boy smiling up at him while splashing his toy shark through the Mr. Bubbles suds. He could still hear Mary's laughter echoing from the doorway behind him as she cradled Sam in her arms. 

As a father, his mind had been filled with hopes and fears for the future. None of those had gone so far as to imagine that he'd one day have to sit beside that bright-eyed boy as he bled out in a dirty tub, worrying about disposing of the bodies of his rapists. John couldn't have possibly failed his son more than he had. 

"Okay." John gently lay the towel over Dean's shoulders when he shivered. "We'll see how you're doing when we reach Minnesota." 

"No." Dean looked panicked. "You can't tell Pastor Jim."

"I can't just leave you alone, Dean."

"Leave me...?" Dean sagged against the side of the tub. He winced, sucking in a pained breath. His eyes were distant as he nodded to himself. "I get it," he whispered. "I do...and I'm sorry, Dad."

John was halfway to his feet when Dean's words sunk in. "You're what?"

"I'm sorry. I know you're disappointed...hell, I don't blame you. I'd leave me too, if I could."

"How could you think...?"

John's words caught in his throat as Dean looked up at him. The expression in his moisture-rimmed eyes was utter devastation. It was what John had expected to see from the first time those men had touched him. He didn't know why it was only surfacing now, but slowly, he realized why the expression looked so damn familiar. It was the same one Dean had worn right after Sam had slammed the door. 

"I know it's not...I know I'm not what you wanted." Dean's voice was raspy and he grimaced as he spoke. "You needed a soldier, not a whore."

"God, Dean, you're not a..." John couldn't even force the word out of his mouth. "And you're not a soldier."

"I know."

Dean said it as if it was a confession. John had raped his son and had let other men do the same and somehow Dean still thought it was his fault. He had just assumed that Dean would want to get as far away from him as humanely possible. It was painfully obvious from the blood that was soaking through the towel that John couldn't protect him no matter how badly he wanted to. 

"I don't know what you think I want, but there's only one thing I need and that's my son safe."

"He is," Dean said. "Sammy's okay, Dad."

"You, Dean. I need you safe."

John's heart shattered as he watched the confusion play over Dean's swollen features. Maybe it was just the pain, but if those words legitimately confused his son, it was little wonder how they'd gotten here. 

John remained perched on the edge of the tub. He put his hand back on Dean's shoulder and pulled his towel-wrapped son as close as he could without risking hurting him further. Dean hesitated a moment before leaning into him, resting his heavy head on John's thigh.

Dean's cheek was lying on his own come stains and John couldn't stop his mind from flashing back to his stripped son on his knees. But that was what Peter had wanted and it was what Dean was afraid so John forced the visuals aside and focused on the boy he should have been seeing all along.


End file.
